


Wishes of the Heart

by xtwilightzx (blackidyll)



Category: Princess Tutu
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-03-01 01:50:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2755115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackidyll/pseuds/xtwilightzx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Why settle for water under your wings when you can guide the wind with your limbs?</i> a voice whispers. <i>A dance is still a dance whether you have toe shoes or webbed feet, but love can only blossom when it’s between two equals.</i></p><p>There’s magic in numbers and in the seasons. The seven days between Christmas and New Year is a time when miracles can happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wishes of the Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Reposting of a fic I wrote years ago for the [Princess Tutu Secret Santa exchange](http://community.livejournal.com/princesstutu/363709.html), to the prompt: "Post-series fic of Ahiru/Fakir, with Ahiru human again; the beginning of their romantic relationship, like a first kiss."

_Once upon a time, there was a duck who became a princess for a prince. She gathered the scattered pieces of his heart and, at the end of the story, gave up her magic and became a duck once more._  
  
 _Once upon a time, there was a duck who didn’t quite act or think like a duck. She lived a simple life with a writer and they were content._  
  
 _But content is not true happiness. And can true happiness ever be found between a human man and a little yellow duck?_  

 

_one_

It’s cold. Ahiru tries settling her wings more firmly around her body, tucking her head further into the mess of blankets. Her hair tickles the tip of her nose and she wrinkles her face, dreaming of the cool lake water streaming under her feathers and the flash of silver fish that would make her dinner.   
  
 _Why settle for water under your wings when you can guide the wind with your limbs?_ a voice whispers.  _A dance is still a dance whether you have toe shoes or webbed feet, but love can only blossom when it’s between two equals._  
  
 _Well, it’s obviously because I don’t have arms and legs,_  Ahiru retorts, planting her fists on her hips and making a face.  _Really, I’m not a girl anymore, so I – wait._  
  
Ahiru shoots upright. A wave of vertigo sweeps through her _–_ the world is different, her line of sight higher, the room smaller. Her gaze sweeps around the room and out the window, lingering on the bright sunshine and clear blue skies and the snow-kissed forest and gleaming sheen of the ice-capped lake. The breath she draws into her lungs makes her straighten, head raised and back straight as a ballerina’s pose always should be.   
  
"I’m... I’m a girl again?” Ahiru says. Her voice is high-pitched with panic, but she’s so relieved to hear words instead of quacks that she slaps her hands to her mouth. Hands that have slender fingers instead of feathers and then she spends another whole minute staring at them.   
  
Then her heart is rising up in her throat, followed by hope, hope she tries so hard to squelch because it  _hurts_  to wish for so much if she is simply dreaming, but hope has always been Ahiru’s element and she can no sooner deny it than to stop breathing, stop dancing. “Fakir!” Ahiru calls, then louder, at the top of her lungs, scrambling out of the crammed basket that only half of her managed to fit into now. “FAKIR!” 

Her feet snag on the blanket and she tumbles, knocking into the side table on her way down. Ink bottles and tomes crash to the ground and loose leaf paper scatter into the air like large white feathers. Ahiru scrunches her eyes shut, covering her head with her arms.

The racket will bring Fakir up if her calls for him didn’t, Ahiru reassures herself. 

*

"A-ahiru?” Fakir says. Ahiru doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry, because ever since she became a duck again, she has never heard Fakir stutter. He smiles, smirks and his tongue never loses its sarcastic bite; sometimes he is gentle and almost tender. But whether he is dancing, fencing or immersed in his writing, Fakir is self-assured because a writer with power like his couldn’t afford to be unsure or indecisive.   
  
"Good morning, Fakir,” Ahiru says, uncurling from the floor and sitting upright, brushing her long red hair from her face. Fakir’s eyes widen at her voice and he stares at her, stares and stares…   
  
And his face flushes bright red and he throws his coat at her, twisting his head around so sharply Ahiru is surprised he doesn’t hurt himself. Ahiru glances down at her naked form and snatches the coat from the floor and there are yells and heated insults and suddenly it feels like nothing has ever changed. 

*

Ahiru’s hand keeps sliding to her collarbone, her fingers curling before she realizes that there is no pendant there to clasp, no heart-shard to bestow its magic upon her.   
  
"I didn’t write your story,” Fakir tells her. “I wouldn’t write you without your permission. You can sense it when I write about you.” His eyebrows furrow and Ahiru knows from the way he rubs his thumb against his middle finger that he had tried to give Ahiru her happy ending, night after night. But a story never comes to him.   
  
"Fakir, what does this mean? Does it mean another story’s begun?”   
  
Fakir closes his eyes. “No. This isn’t a story.” His eyes open and Ahiru can see the darkness of the universe in their depths. She hears the rhythmic grind of cogs turning for a fleeting second before Fakir pulls himself from the world’s voice. “I’m not sure what this is.”   
  
Ahiru twirls her hair around her fingers to keep her hands from trying to touch a nonexistent pendant. “Maybe it’s a bit of Tutu’s magic. It’s Christmas, after all, and Christmas is all about having one’s wish granted, if we long hard enough.”  
  
Fakir stares at her, face blank of expression except the slight downward turn of his lips. Ahiru glares right back. And somewhere between those familiar actions something clicks into place. Perhaps it’s a side effect of Princess Tutu’s magic, in the way the words tumble out of her mouth, as natural as air.   
  
"Let’s not waste time, then,” Fakir says and they are both determined enough that neither of them think the  _before this magic fades_. Ahiru catches Fakir’s hand and allows herself to be pulled to her feet. “There’s some fresh baked bread from the bakery and blueberry preserves for breakfast.”   
  
Ahiru has never been happier about having a meal with someone in her life. 

*

That night, neither of them retires to their respective beds but end up on the thick rugs in front of the fireplace instead. Ahiru lies on her stomach, head tucked against her folded arms, kicking her legs back and forth in midair. Fakir sits close by, back against the leg of a chair, working with sheets of paper and a pot of ink. They banter, argue back and forth, and giggle like small children (at least, Ahiru laughs, like small silver bells ringing – Fakir just smirks).   
  
Ahiru stares at the red-gold fire, hums along with the crackle and pops the logs emits until a drowsy warmth pools in her body and her eyelids flutter with drowsiness. The scratch of quill against parchment is a soothing sound, one that Ahiru falls asleep to every night when she was a duck. It’s no different now even though she’s a girl once more.   
  
Just before she falls into the oblivion of sleep, Ahiru feels a hand curl around hers, clasping firmly but gently, as if holding a tiny bird within. There are calluses under the fingertips. Ahiru falls asleep with a smile on her lips.   
  
When she wakes up the next morning, Fakir is asleep across the rug, his face turned towards her. Their hands span the empty space between them, their fingers entwined together. 

 

_two_

Fakir drags Ahiru to Charon’s house on the second day. He glances everywhere except at Ahiru the first ten minutes after he wakes up and smiles only when she looks the other direction, her long braid of hair swinging behind her back. Fakir is oddly formal when he introduces Ahiru to Charon again. Charon invites them cordially into the house, and the two of them exchange glances over Ahiru’s head.   
  
 _A duck, to a girl, to Princess Tutu. Back to a duck and now again to a girl. What does this mean?_  
  
Fakir leaves to find Autor, promising to be back in two hours, if not sooner. His eyes linger on Ahiru’s red hair, the smile on her face. Uzura drums on her drum nonstop, calling Ahiru’s name repeatedly and normally Fakir’s patience would have snapped.   
  
Instead, he leans against the doorframe and watches Ahiru scoop Uzura up in a tight hug, chattering a dozen to the minute at Charon, maneuvering around the dining room as if she has been a girl all her live.   
  
It doesn’t matter who or what Ahiru is, or whether he is a writer or knight or simply just a man in love. Fakir will protect her, or failing that, at least give her the truth. 

*

Fakir returns two hours later, on the dot, with more questions and speculations and fewer answers than he likes. He knows more than he did the day before, however, and the thought is reassuring. There is no hint of Drosselmeyer’s meddling hand or that of any other storyteller. In fact, there is no indication that anything uncanny is interfering with their lives. Whatever is happening to Ahiru is, at least, not the result of outside forces.   
  
Fakir mulls the thoughts over his head, preoccupied enough that the rustle of fabric and soft footsteps blend into the general sounds of Charon’s house. He steps over the threshold into the dining room and halts, staring.   
  
There is no reason why Fakir would have any girl’s clothing when Ahiru had been a duck. All of Kinkan is closed for Christmas, so Ahiru spent the day before in one of Fakir’s loose shirts, his coat and a makeshift skirt made out of a shawl. Charon had obviously pilfered some of Rachael’s old clothes: Ahiru is clad in a dress, with auburn skirts that hang to her ankles, long white sleeves and a dark brown bodice. Her braid is pinned up in a bun at the back of her head and a smudge of gravy smears a streak across her cheek.   
  
Ahiru is beautiful, in a simple, innocent way that reminds Fakir of Princess Tutu, although Tutu never smiled so exuberantly or skipped along to a tune she hummed under her breath. But more than that is the realization that despite the mere months that she spent in her duck form, Ahiru is more a woman than a girl now.   
  
"Cat caught your tongue, Fakir?” Ahiru asks and twirls around him in a flurry of skirts, the bowl of buttered peas in her arms leaving a faint sweetness in her wake. 

 

_three_

Ahiru wakes up on the third morning to find Uzura staring at her, inches away from her face.   
  
"QUA—” she manages to get out before Uzura upends an entire jug of water over her head.   
  
"Ahiru has to stay human-zura! No quacking-zura. Or else Uzura will keep pouring water on you-zura!”   
  
"I’m not going to disappear if I can help it, Uzura.” Water streams off Ahiru’s hair, disappearing into the white of the bedsheets. Her nightclothes stick to her skin. Ahiru sneezes and wraps her arms around herself.   
  
"Promise?” Uzura’s eyes are large and she brandishes the empty jug like a weapon.   
  
Ahiru shakes her head. “I can’t. But I’ll do my best.”   
  
Uzura’s head tilts backward and Ahiru glances up to see Fakir glaring down at the little puppet-girl. “Already getting into trouble so early in the morning, aren’t you?” He scoops Uzura off the bed and sets her on the ground, turning her pointedly to face the bedroom door. “Go help Charon in the kitchen or something.”   
  
Uzura tilts her head to the side, considering both Fakir and Ahiru. Then she smiles and flings her arms out wide. “It’s love-zura!” she calls at the top of her voice, hitting her drum with each syllable and marching out of the room. “Love-love-love-love-love…”   
  
"You’re up early,” Ahiru comments, wringing out her braid to avoid blushing or meeting Fakir’s gaze. She squawks when Fakir drops a fluffy towel on her, and receives a soft thump to the head for the noise.   
  
"Try not to quack so much,” Fakir says. Ahiru battles her way free from the towel, her hair disheveled from the movements. Fakir’s smirk slips into a frown when he considers the wet sheets and blankets. “We better deal with this before it soaks your bed through. Uzura…”   
  
Ahiru smiles to herself and runs off to the bathroom to get changed. 

 

_four_

The fourth day is calm, with a lingering mist shrouding Kinkan. Ahiru drags Fakir through the town and they end up skidding all over the snow that has iced over the night before. They don’t meet anyone from their classes at Kinkan academy. Fakir isn’t sure if that’s a blessing or not, because most of Ahiru’s friends don’t remember who she is. Although knowing Ahiru’s personality, they’d simply warm up to her all over again.   
  
Ahiru insists on hot chocolate when they return and sneaks marshmallows into Fakir’s cup when he stokes up the fire.   
  
"Four days,” Ahiru counts on her fingers before curling them back around her mug. “Fakir, how long do you think I’ll stay a girl?”   
  
They sit back to back in front of the fire, Ahiru’s hair coiling into a pool beside them.   
  
"I don’t know. There is no story – I can’t manipulate it. And Autor can find no explanation for your change.” Fakir’s body relaxes all at once, as if he’s finally given up holding himself together. Ahiru reaches over, places one hand over his and turns her head to lean against Fakir’s shoulder. “It might be just as you said. Christmas magic. You have your wish of becoming a girl. And with the turn of the year, you begin afresh… as a duck once more.”  
  
"So, the New Year?”   
  
"That’s what Autor and I think. New Year’s Eve makes the seventh day. There’s magic in these numerals, in these traditions and beliefs. If you turn back, that’s the best time for it to happen.”   
  
"Three more days, then,” Ahiru says and sips at her hot chocolate. 

 

_five_

On the fifth day, a blizzard hits and wind howls through the entire town. Charon’s house is secure, however, and the four of them scatter to different rooms, taking time to themselves. Uzura plasters her face against the window in the corridor, watching snow swirl into graceful spirals before dispersing with the wind. Charon is in his workplace, polishing the weapons of his trade.   
  
Fakir goes to his room on Ahiru’s insistence, a thick pad of paper, a long quill and a bottle of ink in hand. There’s a look on his face that Ahiru recognizes: the distance, half-glazed look in his eyes, the way his breath calms to the point where the air seems still around him. It’s Fakir’s writer face and once he starts writing, the story flows out of him, pure and painfully realistic, but always with an optimistic ending. Ahiru loves reading those stories best.   
  
Ahiru steals to the barn and throws herself onto a bale of hay just to feel the straw rustle around her as she sinks down in their midst. Then she leaps to her feet and clears the floor of obstacles and stretches at the desk she uses as a makeshift barre as she’s been doing since they came to Charon’s place.   
  
Then she goes through the five ballet positions, one by one, before moving onto jumps, trying to coax her body into performing moves that came naturally, if awkwardly, just a few months before. Ahiru was never very graceful when she wasn’t Princess Tutu, but just having toes and fingers to work with is a step up from her webbed duck feet and feathers.   
  
Ahiru is balancing determinedly on one foot, the other raised in  _abarasque_  when she feels a hand at the small of her back, steadying her. She stays in the position for long minutes, locking her hands in position and staring strictly ahead until the touch disappears. Fakir goes through his own series of stretches and exercises and Ahiru returns to hers, but it isn’t long before Fakir is by her side, holding his hand out in the pose for an invitation to dance.   
  
They dance a  _pas de deux_ , Ahiru following Fakir’s lead, feeling unwieldy and awkward and unsuited for a partner as skilled at dancing as Fakir. But Fakir is patient and very gentle and Ahiru remembers a  _pas de deux_  they danced at the bottom of the Lake of Despair and lets the doubts slip away. She is clumsy but earnest and Fakir guides that passion into a dance that’s not quite technically correct, but one that illustrates everything that’s between them, a ballet that is theirs alone. They twist and turn and move to a music only they hear, dancing to the whistle of the wind, the soft rustling of snow falling to the ground and the words that’s always existed between them.   
  
When they each settle into their poses at the end, Ahiru curtsies and retreats out of the barn. The weight of Fakir’s gaze is almost tangible on her skin. She doesn’t have to look to know that they are dark with emotion – love for ballet, love for his stories. Love for her.   
  
There is no need for words in ballet. 

 

_six_

The sixth day dawns quiet and windless and with the heavy falling snow it brings Mytho and Rue.   
  
"A sparrow told me,” Rue explains as Mytho takes the cloak from her shoulders. “And so we left immediately.” Her eyes shine faintly with power, with Kraehe’s magic before her gaze drops to her feet.   
  
Ahiru bites at the end of her braid. Even after so many months, Rue found it hard to come to terms with her raven-self. She wouldn’t allow herself to understand a bird’s speech, except that the bird carried news of Ahiru.   
  
Ahiru slides up to her side and hooks an arm around her elbow. “I’m so glad to see you, Rue-chan,” she says, closing her eyes, content. Rue’s eyes soften and she turns to give Ahiru a tight hug.   
  
Mytho bows low towards Ahiru, ever graceful. Ahiru’s eyes are wide as she takes in the display over Rue’s shoulder. “Princess Tutu,” Mytho says, before he catches himself. A rueful smile plays across his face. “Ahiru. I’m glad you’ve found a measure of your happiness.”   
  
"Oh, I have, Mytho,” Ahiru assures him and the two of them hear Tutu’s simple truth and strength in her voice. “Fakir always make sure I eat and that I don’t drown in the lake,” and here, she lowers her voice and adds “as if a duck could drown” then continues with “and we always go back to visit Kinkan Academy and it’s okay if Fakir accidentally shuts me out of the cottage because sometimes I forget and track water all over his paper and that’s when things get really wild.”   
  
Mytho and Rue laugh and Ahiru thinks she has never heard anything better. Then Fakir leans through the open door, and Ahiru knows she’s wrong.   
  
"If you’re done swapping stories, you should come say hello to Charon. Breakfast is ready.” 

*

Mytho pries a visibly reluctant Fakir off to practice some sparring – Fakir understands the bond between the two girls enough to allow himself to get dragged off.   
  
Ahiru and Rue exchange knowing glances. They bundle up into thick cloaks and jackets and when they step outside Ahiru takes one of Rue’s hands and leads her to the tiny pool where many of her bird friends live before they scatter for the winter. Ahiru swings herself up on a low branch, knocking snow to the ground while Rue reclines against the tree.   
  
Rue reaches up to clasp Ahiru’s hand and Ahiru knows in a flash that Rue is thinking of the last time they saw each other, right after the raven’s defeat and when Ahiru was still a duck. Rue touches Ahiru’s wrist briefly before slipping her fingers away, leaving Ahiru’s hand gracefully curved, as if she had been dancing.   
  
"How?” Rue simply asks and Ahiru tells her everything, from the moment she woke up a girl again to Fakir and Autor’s speculations.   
  
"We think maybe it’s a bit of Christmas and the town’s influence,” Ahiru says.   
  
Rue shakes her head. “I wonder if it’s your own magic taking hold.” She dips her hands and turns around to show Ahiru a pitch-black feather, before letting it fall from her grasp. “I’m human, but I still have all of Kraehe’s powers. You were Tutu for so long – why can’t you keep some of her magic?”   
  
Ahiru kicks her feet back and forth. “Tutu’s magic doesn’t work like that, Rue-chan. Her magic comes from people’s hearts. It isn’t really mine to keep.”   
  
"Have you told Fakir how you feel?”   
  
Ahiru claps one hand over her mouth before she can quack in surprise. Rue looks at her and the smile that touches her lips is both fond and exasperated at the same time. "Ahiru. You should tell him. Just in case…”   
  
The blush is still there, hot against her cheeks. Ahiru drops to the ground beside Rue. “I want to.”  
  
"Then do it,” Rue says and the intensity of a raven’s stare is in her voice. “Don’t leave any regrets. I almost lost Mytho before I could say how I truly feel.”  
  
"And it turned out to be the very thing that broke the raven’s spell,” Ahiru says, twining her fingers together and stretching her arms above her head.   
  
"Yes.” Rue’s smile is small but dazzling in its sincerity. 

 

_seven_

The seventh day dawns in stages, the sunlight filtering in through the mist and fog so it appears like the world is illuminated in a soft glow. Ahiru greets the day with peaceful serenity in her heart. Seven, the magic number. If she turns back into a duck the next day… well, that’s okay.   
  
She flings open her window and steps back, but not in time to avoid the swarm of birds flittering in. Sparrows, robins, finches, swallows, birds of every shape and size cluster around the large pan of breadcrumbs, nuts and seeds, pausing every once in a while to twitter a comment at her.   
  
"You’re all so silly,” Ahiru says, separating some of the feast into a bowl for the smaller birds. “Why didn’t you fly south for the winter?”   
  
They chirp and tweet and cheep and Ahiru hears about the gossip from almost every lake, woods and nest in a ten mile-radius around Kinkan town, but not a single bird answers her question.   
  
Ahiru shakes her head and pats a sparrow. “Well, thank you for telling Rue-chan. Whichever of you did it.”   
  
"Ahiru! You better not be feeding those birds of yours in your bedroom!”   
  
Ahiru glances at the maelstrom of birds in her room, some still pecking away, others settling into sleepy perches on every surface, more fluttering in from the window. “Uh oh.” 

*

Before midnight, Fakir and Ahiru excuse themselves and wrap up for the journey home. Charon, Mytho and Rue watch them, filling in the gaps with small talk. Rue’s eyes are anxious and she hugs Ahiru tightly. Ahiru hugs back just as hard. Mytho simply places one hand on Fakir’s shoulder. Then, they’re out in the cold, the snow crunching under their feet, Ahiru’s scarf fluttering in the wind and Fakir’s bare hand wrapped around her mittened one.

Rue’s words are running through Ahiru’s head like the fish in her lake, fleet-quick and relentless. Fakir is tense – she can see it in every line of his body – but his hands when he helps her over a blocked fence are gentle and he never quite lets her out of his line of sight. 

Maybe she is incapable of saying the words aloud, not since Drosselmeyer wove her into his story. Forget turning back into a duck – Ahiru doesn’t want Fakir to hear her feelings moments before she disappears into a spark of light, gone forever. Anything is better than leaving him alone, even staying just friends. 

 _Just friends_ , the thought catches in her throat.  _No_.

"Fakir,” Ahiru says, pulling lightly at Fakir’s hand and he turns immediately. The moon is full, over brimming with moonlight and it plays through Fakir’s dark hair, highlighting his cheekbones, the edges of his form. Ahiru stares at him and wonders for a moment if Fakir has always been this tall.  
  
Ahiru closes her eyes, dips her head down, and curves her arms towards her heart – the pose of love. She holds the pose for a long minute, then glances up and locks eyes with Fakir to make sure he knows and understands. “I always will. No matter what happens.” 

Fakir is still and quiet, his eyes widened in shock as they did the first time Ahiru showed him that pose, back when they worked together to stop Mytho’s raven side. His hands settle on Ahiru’s slim shoulders and then they are reeling her in, Fakir holding her so tightly that Ahiru gasps and clings to his jacket. 

Fakir presses a kiss into her hair and Ahiru stills, shivering slightly. He pulls back and the thrum of the writer’s power is in his voice when Fakir speaks. “I promised to always stay by your side. That will never change.” 

Ahiru recognizes the feeling, of the rush of influence and not-quite manipulation. The story doesn’t change, not by mere words like these and it’s different to feel Fakir’s writer magic flowing around them, sealing the moment rather than changing it. This is what partnership feels like, Ahiru thinks, like a ballerina needs her partner to guide her pirouettes and boost her jumps. It’s never being alone and that thought sparks off something within Ahiru, magic both foreign and familiar at the same time. 

The New Year’s bell rings, pealing out loud and clear throughout Kinkan. Ahiru catches Fakir’s outstretched hand just as something bright coalesces into existence between her and Fakir. It’s the same buoyant feeling Ahiru felt every time she became Tutu and she clings to it and Fakir’s hand even as the world whirls around them, shimmering like a bright bubble before it falls away to leave the night air cold and crisp against her skin, the twelfth and last bell echoing into the corners of the night. 

Ahiru’s head spins -  _wings, feet, ballet shoes; which?_  - until her thoughts snag and catch on the most important point. She concentrates on it, feels herself calm before opening her eyes to Fakir’s face. 

_My feelings are my own. They won’t change, princess, duck or girl._

Fakir stares at the object that lies between their clasped hands. “Ahiru,” he says and his voice is oddly low. “Is this a heart shard?” 

Ahiru’s heart leaps and she uncurls her fingers. The glow from the pendant is a brilliant blue green. Ahiru touches the pendant and shakes her head. “It’s not Love or the Hope I wore before. It’s not even an emotion.”

Her eyes lift up and they are bright, almost shining in the moonlight. 

"It’s Promise, isn’t it? Our Promise,” Fakir finishes for her and Ahiru can only nod. 

Fakir holds his hand out and Ahiru surrenders the necklace, feeling strange the moment the pendant leaves her hand. He fastens the slim chain around Ahiru’s neck with fingers that tremble. Ahiru’s hands close around the pendant and her eyes fill with sudden tears. “Fakir, it feels the same as Tutu’s pendant. The same type of magic.” 

This time, when Fakir hugs her, his embrace is less desperate and more of wild joy. He cups the side of Ahiru’s face, wiping the tears from her eyes with gentle fingers. 

Fakir’s kiss is warm and chaste and intense, and like his dance, it says everything that he couldn’t put directly into words. Ahiru has no experience, but she knows what to do. She closes her eyes, lets the moment guide her and kisses Fakir back. 

Tomorrow, they will visit Charon’s house and let Rue and Mytho share in their joy. Tomorrow, they will figure out what exactly they’ll do for the future, where they stand with each other. But for now, Fakir and Ahiru simply stay out in the snow, just holding each other. 

They have all the time in the world, after all. 

 

_ever after_

_Once upon a time, there was a duck who gave up her magic for the prince and the town she loved so much. She was content because the knight promised to be by her side and so she knew she was not alone._

_Once upon a time, there was a duck who became a girl for a writer. Together, they watched over the town, they danced and they wove careful stories of hardship and growth that always ended with hope. And they proved that a little bit of magic can come from the heart even without a written story, because the duck-girl and the writer-knight are strongest when they work together as one, in tandem._

_And they lived happily ever after in a little cottage by the misty lake, and danced the dances of their hearts’ desire._

**the end**

**Author's Note:**

> Like most fans, I love Fakir/Ahiru and a part of me wanted Ahiru to be a girl again, because duck or not, she's human at heart. I also believe that as powerful a writer as Fakir is, he can't write a change as great as that. Fakir seems the type that writes with the flow - he'll manipulate what he can, but he can't (or won't) write against the story. That's what makes him different - and more ethical - from Drosselmeyer. Fakir has morals, after all. 
> 
> Basically, this is my convoluted way of making Ahiru human and giving Fakir and Ahiru their happy ending. Because they deserve it.


End file.
